


Would He still be Proud of Me if He Knew?

by FriendlyFrat_Boy



Category: Dexter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Detectives, Dexter is empty and Harry's got enough intuition to notice it, Dexter just isn't alright, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, I haven't planned it fully but I just really want to see the horror on Harry's face, I just really wanted to see a fic where Harry had to chase Dexter of all people, If he couldn't handle one dead watch him handle way-too-many, Murder, Police, Revelations, Serial Killers, Time Travel, but not too much, might stick a fair bit to the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyFrat_Boy/pseuds/FriendlyFrat_Boy
Summary: Coming off of the events of Season 8, when Dexter's ship is hit by a storm, he wakes up back in Miami, clutching a piece of driftwood. But the Miami he finds isn't the Miami he left. No, he is far back in time, 26 years. Before his first kill, before Harry died, before everything went downhill. Now, he must find a way to make sure things don't go as terribly, all the while trying to keep his increasingly impatient Dark Passenger from getting them discovered.-----Sounds crazy? Kinda is. Since I don't care for spoilers, here's a rundown of what'll happen (in broad strokes):Dexter will retake his old job at Miami MetroHe'll slowly but surely remind himself in the same old patterns, taking out people who deserve it with more and more ease.Harry will start noticing a pattern where if he mentions an unjustly released criminal, they often disappear within a month or two.He'll track it to Dexter.Let's just say that we've got one heck of a revelation coming.Also, I'm going to pretend that Vogel doesn't exist. She doesn't. It was all Harry.
Relationships: Dexter Morgan & Harry Morgan
Kudos: 16





	1. Came in by the Gulf Stream

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. Uh. This is my first Dexter fic, more to come! I just really wanted to make this, and although I usually plan shit like this meticulously, I just... wanted to cut myself some slack. Not much happens in this first chapter, but things are sure to get juicy down the road, just you wait! 
> 
> The "Harry barges in on Dexter" scene has always been one of my favourites.

When Dexter washed up on shore, clinging carelessly to a piece of his former boat, he was only barely lucid. Even then, in this half-dreaming half-waking state, his thoughts lingered only on how unfair it all was. Maybe it was a bit depressing to admit, but when that storm hit, he had felt nothing but relief wash over him. That, and the cold, salty waves of the sea. It took him under, and he accepted his watery grave. 

Apparently, his instincts betrayed him. Coughing and sputtering, he discarded his old lifeline. He crawled onto the beach, feeling how his clothes stuck to him like an icy, drowned corpse clawing at his body. 

Even worse, now there was sand all over him. Little rocky ants that seemed to creep into every crevice he had. Luckily, he wasn’t wearing anything less than his army green Henley and cargo pants. If his memory served, which it usually did with a militaristic fervour, he’d never much liked being on the beach, especially not in a typical beach outfit. This time… Well, let’s just say that this moment was something else entirely. Under different circumstances, his clothes would have felt cold, soggy and entirely unpleasant. Now, however, they didn’t feel like anything. His skin was numb. He must have been under for quite some time. 

Enough time to change the weather completely, it seemed. Yes, when he looked up at the skies, those skies that had previously been so full and stuffed with smog-like clouds, he found it barren, empty and blue. 

The air was warmer than he was. Perfectly typical Miami weather. Normally, this wouldn’t bother him in the least. Normally, his body temperature wouldn’t be ten celcius below what the air promised. Normally, the weather didn’t change in mere moments. Unless… it hadn’t been mere moments. After all, the weather wasn’t the only odd thing. He could clearly remember leaving the hospital at noon, well after the sun had already risen up high and started faltering in its gait. Now, this very moment… The sun had only just risen. Far from reaching its equinox. 

Something here was very wrong, but Dexter wouldn’t know what this was unless he got up from crawling in the sand. By the looks of the man half-jogging up to him, he would get some help to do so. 

“Hey there, are you alright buddy?” the man asked, reaching down a hand for Dexter to grab, which he did. “Why, you’re practically soaked! Out for a dip this early?” When Dexter didn’t respond, staring at what the man was wearing in pure confusion, the man simply decided to continue, clearly having noticed something else. “Good lord, you’re frozen solid! Did you just step out of a freezer or something?” Dexter stared at him for a moment longer before formulating an answer.

“I-, uh. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but notice your shirt…” Saying so, Dexter pointed at the shirt that had caught his attention. Some might consider it rude of him not to answer any of the man’s questions, but Dexter had a knack for redirecting attention away from himself. 

The man glanced down, eyes and face lighting up at the sight. “Oh, this? Not to brag, but I got this myself when AC/DC visited just the other year!” the man bragged, grinning ear-to-ear. He got it just the other year. He got a 1976 AC/DC on-tour T-shirt just the other year. The man’s eyebrows scrunched together for a moment. “Well, ten years ago, to be exact. Goodness, it’s already been a whole decade! Time goes fast, doesn’t it?”

“Uh. Yeah, it does,” Dexter replied, letting the man pull him up to stand. Sure, he was thankful for the help and all, but… This dementia-ridden patient must have a few retainers. Wherever they were. “I’ll be going now.”

“You don’t want me to call for an ambulance or anything? You look really sick.” Somehow, despite his own clear illness, the man was still able to worry for Dexter of all people. 

“No, that’s-, that’s alright. I’ll be fine,” Dexter said, walking off before the man could involve himself with Dexter any more than he already had. Make no mistake, Dexter really did hope nobody would be looking for him, but… Somebody was sure to notice his departure. Even worse, there was no doubt that someone would make the connection between Debras’s disappearance and his own. Debra. 

The name rang through his head unbidden, an echo of a life he might as well have taken himself. His last remaining vestige of humanity. 

Lost. Dead. Killed. 

He buckled over where he stood, trembling hands groping for some support of some kind. He found a bench, which he took a seat on. Heaving a sigh, he tried desperately to let the shaking exit his body, eyes closed, teeth gritted. It didn’t. If anything, it only grew stronger as her voice seemed closer and closer. Nearer and nearer, until-,

“Hey, mister, are you alright?”

“Debra, don’t bother the nice man, he’s just taking a break.”

That name. That voice. Young, younger than he had ever remembered, and yet, so very close-, Dexter peeked an eye open. And… there she was. Young, yes. Barely of age. Almost adolescent. Large, innocent eyes that had yet to see her first corpse. Yet to stare into the dead unblinking eyes of a person-no-longer. When had he last seen her so… childish?

“Excuse my daughter, she didn’t mean anything by it. Unless you aren’t alright, in which case I’d gladly be of service,” this man, on the other hand, was exactly the same as Dexter could remember him. The very same voice, the very same face. Maybe a little bit younger. Harry. His foster father. “Hello? Sorry, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Well… he had. 

“I’m… not feeling alright,” Dexter admitted. And he wasn’t. These people standing in front of him, living, breathing… Seeing all of them was too much. Even just seeing Debra, as little and un-Debra as she was… it was so much. “Sorry.”

Harry looked him up and down, taking in his drenched clothes and tired eyes and pained complexion. Before Dexter could object, he placed his hand on his forehead. “What a fever! Walking around soaked like that… No wonder you don’t feel alright, I’d be surprised if you did!” For a moment, Harry seemed to consider the man before him. Finally, he gave his wife a look, and turned back to him, eyes solid and decisive. “You’d better dry off and get yourself some warm clothes. Have you got anywhere to go?” Dexter considered the words spoken before slowly shaking his head. “Then you’d better come with us. We’ve got room for you.”

Dexter glanced up at his foster father, letting his vision graze over the older man. Slightly older. He was wearing this beige shirt, sleeves rolled up, the ends stuffed into a pair of light brown pants. Off-duty. Doris seemed to be saying something, something about how maybe it wasn’t a great idea, but Dexter… Dexter couldn’t hear it. “I wouldn’t want to impose.” 

As if he could impose on his own hallucination. “Nonsense! We weren’t heading anywhere important, I’d say we hurry before you catch yourself a cold!” A cold? In this weather? Highly unlikely, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was practically shivering. 

Then again, it wasn’t possible to impose on a hallucination, so he didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if his life could get any worse than it already was. So, uncaring as only a dead-man-walking could be, he stood up. Harry smiled softly at him, and started walking away. Dexter took it as his cue to follow. For some reason, it seemed Harry was confident enough to walk in the front beside his wife while Dexter trailed behind, one of the two Morgan siblings at either of his sides. Debra on his right, and Dexter on his left. 

Of the two, Debra seemed the most excited to speak. “Hey, what’s your name? Why’re you all drenched? Did you fall in the ocean?” 

Dexter smiled wryly at what he knew was a hallucination. “Got hit by a storm.” And he would say no more. Didn’t want to say any more. A life of saying too much and saying too little had left him unable to choose either. He hoped his brief answer would satiate her. It did not.

“A storm?? Off where, in Alaska? I heard there’s this stream outside the bay that brings all sorts of things in, did it bring you in, too?”

“Suppose so.” Dexter really didn’t like how quiet the other Dexter was being. Hallucination or not, silence in the presence of people who should be talking usually didn’t comfort him in the least, and this was no different. Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to initiate conversation with the teen. If his younger self was to act as a substitute for his all-too-quiet and all-too-loud dark passenger, so be it. 

Harry and Doris seemed entirely interested in simply discussing things together. Doris lamented over not getting to buy that sweet little yellow-lace dress she’d spotted the other day, and Harry seemed almost too happy to miss out on having to walk her through an entire mall. He was exactly as Dexter had always remembered him, minus everything that he told him in hushed tones. All the lessons and rules he’d imparted behind closed doors, on the boat out at sea where no one would hear them. For once, Harry seemed less like a personification of Dexter’s dwindling conscience and more like… more like the actual, real human. A person. A father. 

As he’d truly been. And the thought scared Dexter somewhat. What if he wasn’t hallucinating? What if he hadn’t died in that wreck, and he was still in reality? What if the people walking around him weren’t air, but his own, long-lost family?

How would he even take that?

Until they got to the house, Dexter didn’t bother thinking about it. They went inside, and it was exactly the same as it had always been. Same kitchen, same walls, same lamps… Everything. Either this psychotic episode was especially severe, or something else was happening. “I’ll show you to the guest room,” Doris said. Dexter didn’t need to be led there, he knew they way, but he let her take him. “The restroom is just down the hall, join us for lunch once you’ve finished showering. 

“Um, before you go?” He had to confirm something. A final little question. She turned around, and gave him a little smile. “What year is it?” Couldn’t hurt to ask. 

A small laugh escaped her cherry-blossom lips. “It’s 1986, did you really get in a shipwreck after all?”

Ah, she’d been listening. Always been more attentive than you thought. “No, but thank you.” He wasn’t about to accept her word as gospel just yet, but it was worth a thought. He closed the door to the guest room behind him, peeled off his soiled clothes (that still smelt of salt and algae and everything else Dexter dumped in the bay), hung them over a chair, and headed to the restroom for a shower. 

The water felt hot and warm on his cold skin. It rejuvenated him, brought him back to the present. He’d always been more for cold showers in the morning. It woke him up, made sure his senses were sharp and cool. Right now, they were anything but. It was a muddled heap of messy red lines and messy red blood. Everything was topsy turvy. Had he really gone back 26 years in time? To a time before it all happened, to a time before everything went so wrong? 

Before his first kill, before dad died, before Debra died… it felt like a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. He didn’t usually have either. Dreamless nights. Nowadays, his nights were anything but calm. Or maybe that would change now. 

Hot, steaming water slid off his body, his scarred body. Scarred in ways you couldn’t see and couldn’t feel. When he turned off the shower, he felt… better. Somewhat. His head ached and his chest was filled with a hollow echo, but compared to how cold he was before, he was pretty sure this ordeal wouldn’t leave him with a fever or anything of the like. 

Back in the guest-room, he found a change of clothes waiting for him. Nothing extravagant, just an old shirt and a pair of pants and that was it. Harry’s old clothes to be sure. It felt quaint, being able to wear the same things his dad used to wear. 

And it truly cemented his situation. This wasn’t a hallucination.

The revelation felt… Unreal. Fake. Too far away. He’d already had one life-changing event today, why must he experience another one? He didn’t want this any more than he had wanted for Debra to find out too much. He’d call it unfair if he didn’t know, deep down, that someone like him deserved all of this. If anything was unfair, it was that this hadn’t happened sooner. 

“Glad you could join us, take a seat!” Harry said, gesturing towards the empty chair. It was of a different colour and make compared to the other chairs occupied at the table. Even so, Dexter felt welcome enough to sit. “The name’s Harry, Harry Morgan.”

A cue. “Dexter.” He saw how his younger counterpart froze, and his words died on his tongue. He couldn’t say his real name, could he? He loved Harry, of course he did, but even then… He couldn’t let Harry know what became of his son. “Dexter Mitchell.” The family at the table shared a few glances. The young Dexter seemed the most conflicted. Dexter had consciously avoided the boy’s gaze. He knew what he’d see in there, but he didn’t want the boy to know what was in his eyes. 

“A pleasure having you, Dexter. This is my wife, Doris, and our children, Debra and Dexter.” He made a broad wave to the family, and for a brief moment, they seemed perfectly normal. Debra was grinning, Doris gave a pleasant smile, and the young dexter… Oh. Their eyes met. 

The smile that the teenager had mustered faltered the moment his eyes met Dexter’s. Recognition dawned in them, and all need for pretence was lost. Had Dexter been smiling before, he might have lost it as well. As it was, he didn’t have the spirit to fake it. So many years, and now, faced with his father, he simply didn’t feel the need. Didn’t try to even cover it up. The teenager stiffened, eyes widening. In those eyes, Dexter saw his own reflection. Small. A mere cub, shrinking back, bearing its sharp milk-teeth in the face of a much larger predator. 

“-Dexter, everything alright there, son?” Harry asked, that tinge of worry in his voice making Dexter feel almost nostalgic. Even so, he knew the question was not for him. The one addressed, however, did not reply. For a full moment, his eyes remained locked on Dexter’s, until, finally…

“Um, dad, can I talk to you?” Harry understood the cue immediately. Once he apologized to Dexter, he stood up and followed the younger teen outside. 

When he returned, his eyes were far harder. Dexter could remember that gaze from way back when Harry used to complain about criminals that had gotten loose. Back then, Dexter hadn’t been able to do anything. Now… well, now, he wouldn’t do anything either. He hoped. He’d rather not incur the wrath of his foster father again. 

Harry sat down at the table, hands folded. He tried smiling, but it was obviously strained. Whatever Dexter’s young counterpart had told him, it can’t have been good. “-Dexter, to begin with, I would like to say that I am an officer of the law. Does this interfere with any of your personal beliefs or opinions?” Oh, certainly not. If it did, Dexter wouldn’t have become one himself. 

“No. I work for the police myself.” Well, it was true. Somehow, this revelation caused Harry’s entire demeanour to soften. The young killer-in-the-making only grew warier. He knew another predator was trespassing in his territory. Before Harry had time to ask the obvious question, Dexter whipped out the answer. “Forensics. I do blood spatter.”

Harry nodded. Dexter couldn’t tell if it was approvingly or not. He didn’t speak much about the forensic guys back when Dexter was young, usually, he only talked about them when they flubbed a case and got a guilty one walking. “What’re you doing in Miami? Here for a reassignment?” It was a fair question, all things considered. Still, Dexter couldn’t much admit that he had neither identification nor proof of existence. He was a blank slate. 

“-Not quite. A… lot of things have happened.” He took a deep breath, and prepared himself. “My house burnt down in a fire, all the papers and everything going with it. Things happened and I ended up here, and now I’m lost without any credible identifications or anything. I can’t even keep a job. Even though I used to be one of the greatest blood spatter analyzers in the country, I’m less than anything now.” A tragic backstory. Completely fabricated. Harry stared at him. 

“That is…” Harry glanced away at some unidentified spot on the wall. When he turned back to look at Dexter, his eyes, although cautious, showed pity and remorse. “I believe,” he began, an uncertain smile fluttering over his lips, “that we might have a job opening down at the office. For a forensic guy.” That… wasn’t bad. “Even without a diploma, if you can prove your merit to Rick, I’m sure he’ll accept you readily.”

Dexter nodded. “I’d love to show what I’ve got. I’m eternally grateful, Harry.”

And he was.


	2. Notes on a certain Dexter

Dexter Mitchell was an… interesting character. 

The moment Harry spotted him on the street, sitting hunched over on a bench, shaking like a leaf in still-soaked clothes, he knew something was off about him. There was a look in his eye, something unhinged, something wary and staring and there and gone. Harry hadn’t seen many people with eyes like those, but the ones he’d seen were usually behind bars. One might ask, then, why he decided to invite such an unsavoury character into his home. The answer was simple. It was everything else he saw in that eye. Everything that wasn’t inhuman. 

Pain. Pain and sorrow. Unlike his adoptive son, Harry had the empathic ability to pity people in more pain than he himself was. Even if they seemed to be this broken. 

So, he invited him in. Listened to his story. Promised him abode for the near future. Everything one man can do to protect his fellow men, his fellow people of the force. That was another surprising factor. Maybe the long-lost man was going out on a limb, trying to fool Harry out of something, but Rick would see to that. Rick was a good man and an even better forensic scientist, he’d be able to tell whether or not Dexter knew his stuff. Until then, Harry would remain from sleeping. The words his still-young trainee told him lingered in his head.

(“He’s bad news, dad. I can see it. He’s killed before, I know it, and he’ll kill again. Whatever he’s doing here, it can’t be good.”)

As odd as his relationship was with the young Dexter, he knew he could trust him. The boy idolized him. Wouldn’t let him get hurt no matter what. And that was exactly why he didn’t mind Dexter sleeping a few nights in his house. Psychopaths were far from trustworthy, they could easily lie about the colour of the sky or where they were last night, but the one thing that never lied was their eyes. His son could smile for photos and laugh at stupid jokes all he wanted, but when he looked Harry in the eye, the truth always shone through. Dexter, as he was right now, would not hurt them. He didn’t have the soul. 

Even if he did, Harry trusted his own son and himself enough to be able to deal with some far-gone lunatic. 

At dinner, Dexter hardly spoke a word, and Harry almost liked it that way. Not the type to smile. Or, no, that wasn’t quite right. His face was wrinkled and rugged, creases lining his eyes and mouth, indicating that smiling and laughing used to be his de facto face. Something had changed. All day, Dexter hadn’t flashed a single smile. All he did was stare down at the food, eat it, and shoot side-long, far-off glances at himself and Doris. It seemed like he didn’t like looking at either Debra or Dexter. He understood why Dexter wouldn’t like looking at the teenaged boy, but Debra… Debra seemed to be a different story. Every time his hazy eyes passed over her, he flinched, his stony face scrunching up in pain and loss.

Perhaps there was more to Dexter? A loss of a loved one? Maybe even a young daughter?... It was… plausible, but not very likely. Psychopaths weren’t prone to loving people as far as Harry knew. He’d know, since he was sheltering his own. 

Dinner concluded uneventfully and quietly. It seemed the silence of their guest had successfully quelled the energy at the table. Not even Debra shouted, which was unusual. A change, but a welcome one. 

Night rolled around and Dexter lumbered off to bed at a rather early hour, declining a late-night coffee. A warm meal and warm clothes could only lead to a warm and cosy sleep. Doris fell asleep at 22:46 after finally getting to the half-way point of her favourite book, The Collector. Harry gave her a peck on the cheek, listened to her breaths for a few minutes until they softened into snores, and proceeded to get out of bed. In the living room, he found none other than his teenaged son. The boy’s eyes turned on him. At the dinner table, Dexter had at least kept up the pretence of subdued joy, but now, that had peeled away fully. 

Apathetic, cold eyes stared back at Harry, illuminated only by a little table lamp. His eyes were like frozen lakes, uncaring, distant. Sharp like razor-thin ice. “Hi dad,” he said, his voice as monotone and flat as a dead snake. 

Harry nodded at him, and took a seat beside him on the couch. Their thoughts had been the same, and no more words needed to be exchanged. If something happened in that house, they would know. 

An hour later, Dexter emerged from the guest room. Harry didn’t hear him coming. Didn’t even hear the door close behind him. He slid across the floor, like a lizard on ice. Eyes straight ahead, jaw clenched. Dark circles ringed his eyes, tattling on the fact that he had not slept in a good while. With a physique like that, one would expect good sleep to follow. Something in his mind must prevent that. Something that could rattle even a psychopath… It was interesting. Where he sat, Harry could feel his son squirm in his seat. 

That was all Dexter needed. His eyes turned from the darkness ahead and onto them. In those eyes, Harry could see the darkness that surrounded him, embedded deep in his soul. His son was right, this man had seen and done things Harry never had. He stopped in his tracks. All of a sudden, Harry realized that neither of the Dexters would be the first to speak here. 

It was all up to Harry. “Can’t sleep?”

Dexter glanced between Harry and the teenager. However his mind worked, it did so in silence. “Yes.” A moment passed before he spoke up again. “And you?” An open question, designed to get as much out of him as possible. The only solid, obvious hint was that he knew Harry wasn’t awake out of insomnia. Not surprising. 

“One must always be cautious,” Harry said. No need to keep up any pretences around this guy. 

Dexter looked away. Was that a twinge of guilt Harry spotted in his eyes? “Guess so.”

The night concluded without any further happenings. Dexter returned to his room, and the father-son duo remained awake, just in case. 

When the morning arrived, Harry realized unhappily that he was very, very tired. Dexter and Dexter seemed to be similarly tired, but the older man appeared to be more used to it, as if it was an everyday occurrence. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Harry had no business knowing. Normally, Harry would vehemently oppose anyone who so much as suggested he go to work on a Sunday, but today was a special day. After all, he had a special one to introduce to the team. “Alright, let’s get going.” Dexter didn’t oppose in the least. Neither did he affirm or anything, but since he stood up and followed Harry outside, he could only assume that he agreed. Harry hopped in the driver seat, and Dexter… almost got in the back seat. 

The second he pulled the door open he must have realized he wasn’t supposed to sit in the backseat. With a shake of the head, he closed the door and got in the front. “Sorry.” And that was all he said about it. 

“So,” Harry got the car started, “how long have you been on the force?” He pulled out onto Dixie highway. 

Saying Dexter froze up might have been a strange way to put it, since that would suggest he was about to say something untruthful. That wasn’t how Dexter seemed frozen. He seemed thoughtful, quietly counting the years in his head. “Eighteen years.” 

“That long? Impressive. Must’ve gone straight from college to work.” Dexter nodded. “How’d you end up in Miami?”

Dexter didn’t answer for a long while. “I’d… rather not talk about it.”

Alright. That was fine. As suspicious as Dexter was, Harry couldn’t very well interrogate all the truth out of him. If Dexter didn’t want to speak, he wouldn’t. And that was how this moment continued. The car ride was a silent one, and even when they reached the station, Dexter didn’t seem perturbed enough to question it. They got a guest pass for Dexter, and spent no time idly walking about, they went straight for the third floor. Straight to homicide. The only thing of note was that somehow, Dexter seemed to know his way around. It was subtle, more subtle than most would care to notice, but Harry saw it. He’d seen enough confused people in handcuffs to know how people looked like in new environments, and this wasn’t it. He strode confidently, as confidently as such a broken man could. 

“Who’s that? New meat?” Rick asked, flashing one of his usual lop-sided grins. Going by the bags under his eyes, it would seem he, too, had spent the night awake. He quickly scanned Dexter from head to toe, nodding as he went. “Alright, alright. Not bad!”

“Rick, this is Dexter Mitchell, Dexter, this is Rick Orville.” With the introductions over and done with, they could get down to business. “You were searching for an assistant, weren’t you?” Rick lit up at the mention. “Well, Dexter here has had 18 years on the force. He’s lost his certificates, but you’ll do him the honour of an interview, won’t you?”

“Of course! Come on Dexter, follow me inside,” Rick said, waving Dexter into his office. And now, all Harry had to do was wait. 

He didn’t like the idea of working on a Sunday, but he did actually have some unfinished reports he could work on while Dexter proved his competence. 

Three women all chopped up in a single room. No sign of any struggle. Faces twisted in delight and ecstasy. Worst of all, on top of it all, it was a locked room murder. No sign of the killer. One of those mysteries he read about in his favourite mystery thrillers. He loved those, those with interesting deaths and hard-boiled detectives and mysteries. He just wished they weren’t so close to reality. 

Time passed in a blur, and when Dexter tapped him on the shoulder, he was startled out of it. “Oh, Dexter! I-, sorry, did everything go alright?” Quiet as he was, Harry could almost tell nothing going just by his expression. He was assured. He knew that much.

“Harry, where in the world did you find this guy? It’d be a shame to take him on as my assistant, he deserves a full-time position!” Rick said, hands on his hips. “I’m taking him on. Hell, Dexter, I’ll make sure you get a full job as Blood Spatter Analyst! We didn’t have that position, but I’m sure I’ll be able to get it.” Well well well. Guess Dexter wasn’t lying after all, not that Harry wouldn’t have been able to tell if that was the case. 

“That’s great, Dexter. Guess you won’t need to live in our guest-room for long, huh?” Harry said, smiling softly. Dexter seemed startled, but didn’t respond otherwise. Hold on. He wasn’t entirely unresponsive. There was a glint in his eye. A little kernel of joy. Glee. Whatever for, Harry did not know. “I just got started on some paperwork, would you like to go home or have Rick take you on a tour? Get to know your new workplace?”

Dexter thought for a moment. “I’d like to start working as soon as possible.”

“Hey, that’s great!” Rick said, patting Dexter on the back. “I’ll get you up to date with all the big cases in no time!”

Although Dexter jumped at Rick’s sudden touch, he seemed happy to work. “Yes, let’s.”

They walked off, and Harry got to work. What an interesting situation.

\------

There wasn’t much to report. Miami Metro was the same in terms of layout, the only big difference being what rooms were used for what and the furniture it housed. Finding his way around was easy as always, although having Rick show him the way did help a bit. Not much, but enough. 

Getting back to work after all that happened… it might be hard, but he’d do it. Forensic techniques had yet to develop to the extent that Dexter was used to, but he’d make do.

The only real question he had, now that he had a form of stable living, was… what now? What was there for him to do? Finding his way back to his own time would be… impossible. There was little chance of that happening, especially since he didn’t know how this happened in the first place. Even if he did return, what would there be for him to return to? No, all things considered, this reality was better. This reality, where everyone he killed was alive, Harry, Debra, Doris… Everyone he killed. 

Including his victims. All his delicious little playmates were yet alive. As if nothing had happened.

That was… worrying. Sure, he said he didn’t want to kill, but… Oh, who was he fooling? Although he felt disgusted and nauseous right now, in time, in due time, he would yearn for it once more. The one release. His only way of feeling. One day, it would become impossible to withstand. His little vestiges of humanity would peel away and melt off and corrode from his form, leaving him an empty husk. The black waters would come and the only hand he could cling to in those depths would be the black scaly hand of the Dark Passenger. 

He would kill again. He had to. 

The only question was: who?

He knew who. Without his bloodslides his memory of all his playdates would surely fade, but at the moment, he could recall them all. All those killers, yet to receive their due punishment. ...Yet to kill. Yes, many of his future kills have yet to earn their place on his table. How would he deal with this? Could he justify killing someone that had yet to kill? Would they even kill in this timeline, what with his existence? Considering the butterfly effect, there was a good chance a lot of the people he had killed might not kill in this timeline. 

This was a problem. “Dexter, you seem unusually out of it,” Harry noted, his finger tapping against the steering wheel to the light beats of the radio. This brought Dexter out of his distant daze. 

He turned to his foster-father. Ah. How stupid of him. Here he’d been, mulling over moral quandaries, when the person who gave him morals in the first place was sitting right beside him. “...Harry. If you knew that someone would kill in the future, would you kill them before they could do so?” 

Harry glanced at him, keeping the road in his peripheral vision. “-No. I wouldn’t.” His voice was strong, stoic. Like it always was when Harry condemned killers and killing. “It’s innocent until proven guilty. Punishing someone for a crime they haven’t committed… it’s Orwellian.” 

Dexter nodded. If he said so. 

Still, that wouldn’t stop him from finding his killers. He had a fair few on his list of victims that had damned themselves before 1986, the most prophylactic one being a certain Arthur Mitchell. The mere thought of his name set Dexter’s instincts on edge. He’d been a true foe. But he’d taken him out. It cost him a lot, too much, really, but he did it. He disposed of him. To his side, Dexter noted absently that Harry was giving him a rather strange look. The kind of look you’d give a lion caged in a styrofoam cage. A look Dexter didn’t like. No, he didn’t like it at all. “-I was thinking about someone. Someone I didn’t like.”

Harry looked back at the road, frowning lightly. “...I see.” He swallowed. “We all have people we don’t like, Dexter. Sometimes, the worst thing we can do is forgive them.”

What a Harry thing to say. “I don’t have to.” And Dexter was glad about that. Forgiving Arthur was one of the few things Dexter couldn’t do. Maybe it was his pride, maybe it was a rare display of emotion. Maybe he was just angry someone had put his paws and claws on someone Dexter had under his protection. He looked over at Harry. The older man seemed a single shade paler than before. Yeah. Dexter wouldn’t let anyone hurt him this time. Be it stress or himself. 

...Yes. He’d make sure of it. Harry would live. Longer than he ever did. And Debra wouldn’t get hurt, and his young self… If it meant that he didn’t have to grow up to be Dexter, he’d change him, too. Make him see some other way. 

He wouldn’t change the past much. Not much, but enough. 

\-----

Dexter was… starting to scare Harry a little. Just a little though.

Most of the time, he was absent. Lost in thought. Back at the office, Harry could often spot Dexter zoning out, and oftentimes, Rick couldn’t really get him out of it. Harry himself, on the other hand? Just a word from him and Dexter snapped out of it. It was subtle, almost invisible, but he seemed to light up a little when he saw Harry. Somehow, he seemed to trust him. It might have been because Harry got Dexter out of his rut, but it seemed to be a little deeper than that. 

As if he really trusted him. Harry was no expert on psychopaths, but even he knew that they didn’t trust people easily. They looked at other people and saw a reflection of themselves, of the callous nature that they housed. 

Therefore, they could never trust another as humans usually trust each other. 

Dexter didn’t trust Rick. He jumped at the slightest touch. Didn’t touch any of the guys at the office. Barely gave them a passing glance. 

With Harry, he was a different man. He looked at him, and he spoke, and he seemed… genuine. 

It was almost eerie how similar their relationship was starting to become to the relationship Harry had with his foster son. 

They were so similar.


	3. The Art of the Hunt

When Dexter moved out of his old foster-home and found himself an apartment to live in, he had already scouted out a target. A certain Mark Wolter, security guard at a local nightclub called the Hot Blue Flamingo. Dexter really just found him on a hunch. People would come into the nightclub, and at the end of the day, sometimes, very rarely, one of them wouldn’t come out. Making sure of it, forcing it to follow all the necessary rules and live up to all proof was hard. He was still a newbie at the department. Couldn’t really come and go as he pleased. 

Even then, after all these weeks of scouting and skulking and stalking, he had everything ready. A small rental car, a bag of necessities (how could he do without his dear plastic wrap?) and a shaky, indomitable will. 

The Dark Passenger was on edge. Teeth bared, wings furling and unfurling, it paced through his mind. How long had it been since his last kill? How long had he waited for this moment? Too long. All too long. It wasn’t the time, either. Not entirely. There was a bad taste in his mouth. After his last kill, what he had thought would be his very last (dearly departed Debra, how he missed her so), he’d either had the choice to quit entirely, or wash it out with something different. Something… like this. 

Mark Wolter was not a large man. Short and stout, thin as a rake, he was not the kind of person Dexter felt should have a job as a security guard. Still, flanked by a much larger man, it seemed his strength laid not in his physical size, but in his glib tongue and deft hand. 

Neither of those would help him now. 

Despite the Hot Blue Flamingo being a nightclub, it closed before 1. As usual, Mark was the one to close it down after everyone involved had left. He liked it that way, and on days when he had a friend to take care of, nobody could know when he left. Today would be no different. Dexter stepped out of the little Fiat he’d rented with nothing but thoughts in his head. The clothes he wore were the very same ones he had fallen into the sea in. Apparently, the ’80s had no matching clothes. His tote-bag was filled with very different things. 

He hadn’t been able to get his usual tranquillizers from down at the office, but what he did have was a spool of fishing line. The old-fashioned ways never hurt anyone. 

Mark surely wouldn’t mind. Not for long, at least. 

Dexter did not enter through the front door, not that it was open. No, he circled around the building, and found the back-door wide open, as it usually was. Mark liked to leave it open, and Dexter wasn’t about to complain. It made his job a lot easier. Finding Mark himself was equally easy. All and all, this kill would be the simple sort, and would serve as a nice change of pace for Dexter. He’d had a lot of near-misses these last couple years. A good old-fashioned murder would get him some peace and quiet.

Once he located Mark, taking bites out of a forgotten sandwich in the kitchen, Dexter didn’t hesitate to pounce on him. The spool of fishing line slipped cosily around Mark’s neck, and with no fat in the way, getting a strong clutch on his airways was as easy as pie. 

“Gack-, wh-,,,” Shh. Take it easy. The Dark Passenger murred happily as Mark staggered for a moment, more surprised than scared, though this shifted remarkably quickly. If he could have screamed at this moment, he would have. He did not. His hands groped for something - anything - to hold, but all he grabbed were fistfuls of nothing. Dexter let the line tighten around his neck, digging into the thin skin around it. Mark twitched painfully, gave one weak jerk, and collapsed. 

Dexter waited a few moments before releasing his grip. And now, to prepare the kill-room. This kitchen would do very well. Before that, though, he had to secure Mark to the table. Having him wake up early would be bad, he knew that by now. 

Half an hour later, and everything was ready. The walls and floor were covered in plastic sheets, a few photographs littered the wall, and Dexter was ready. Finding a latex apron like the one he’d liked so hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. Tools all laid out on a counter, he awaited Mark’s awakening. It was taking long. Too long. Had he strangled him for too long? That red line across his bean-pole of a neck certainly said it had been too hard, but…

“Grnngh…” Ah. There it was. 

Dexter grinned. His first genuine grin in so long. Not that it was his, no, it was theirs. The Passenger was now the Driver, and Dexter was all too happy to take shotgun. “Good morning, Mark.” 

The man in question froze at the addressal. Dexter’s voice was slippery, cold and deadly. Inhuman and reptilian. Barely man at all. Pain blossomed over Mark’s neck and he seized up in a chain of raspy coughs, tearing through his harmed throat like glass shards. “Gck, you, I…” His eyes flared open, hazy and glazed over, they took in his surroundings, eventually falling on Dexter himself. “Who-, who are you?...”

“I am your unmaking,” he said, his voice a two-man chorus of intent and action. “You have been very busy, Mr Wolter.” He grinned. “And this is exactly what you’ve got coming.” 

How could Mark possibly object to that? After all, he knew that look in Dexter’s eye better than anybody. He’d seen it in the mirror many a time, and here it was. Directed at him. The night would be long, the longest night of his life. So, too, would it be his last. 

When Dexter was done, a few hours later, all he was left with were a couple of trash bags, a little blood slide and a clean conscience. He felt better, all things considered. He usually did after events like this, but it truly felt like he cleaned his palette. He was ready to ravish the world, and the world was ripe for the plunder.

The Slice of Life may have been resting on the bottom of the sea, but a little rowboat wouldn’t seem too out-of-place at this hour. 

The only thing at this moment that perturbed Dexter was his lack of funding. No car, no boat, and his apartment was a rental. Not an ideal situation, but he’d have that changed soo enough. 

The next morning, Harry seemed to look at him… strangely. “Dexter, did you get a good night’s sleep? You seem more energetic than usual.” Why, no, he actually didn’t, but he wasn’t about to confess his real reason for being in an unusually good mood. Not to Harry. 

“Yes, I did. Thank you for noticing.” To add insult to injury, Dexter let a small, not entirely untrue smile graze his lips. Harry flinched, eyebrows scrunching together. Had he done something wrong? He’d only wanted to assure Harry that he was in a good mood, was that really so strange? 

“...I see. Well, then, uh… Have you had time to read the report on the Locked Party yet?” 

Dexter took a seat on the opposite side of the table. They had made a habit of eating lunch together, sitting outside the office by the sandwich cart (which was still the very same even in the 80’s, somehow) and today was no different. “The what?”

Harry frowned deeply, not at Dexter, but at the case itself. Or the officers handling the case. Knowing Harry, it could be either one. “Fucker killed three chicks in a locked room, and now he’s going to walk. Scot-free.” ...Oh. “And we’ve got a witness, too! She’s clammed up to all hell and won’t speak. Keeps yapping about how Shiva will punish her if she speaks. Sounds like a damn cult.” -Right. 

“Any suspects?” Of course he had to ask. 

“Sure do. As guilty as can be, but we’ve got no proof. Unglaus Petriffe. Weird name, weird guy.” 

Dexter put the name to mind. Now he knew who his next friend would be. The Dark Passenger purred happily. Getting back on track didn’t feel too bad, especially not when he knew who to go with next. 

Mind you, he wasn’t just doing this because Harry was telling him to, of course not! This wasn’t about any of that, about making his old man proud or whatever, this was about what was convenient and what wasn’t. This kill had practically fallen into his lap! The fact that it was Harry who brought him the news didn’t perturb him in the least. That was a coincidence at best. That was it. 

Lunch concluded, and Dexter smiled at the future. Unglaus Petriffe. 

He looked forward to meeting him.

\-------

Harry had started noticing something odd. 

Nothing concrete, nothing certain, no proof…

But he knew people were disappearing. It was Unglaus Petriffe at first, and then Seth Lopting, and then… Again. Not often. It wasn’t often that Harry caught a bad guy slipping through the cracks, but whenever he did, whenever he audibly complained about him to the people close to him… Within a month, they disappeared. At first, he thought it was a coincidence. They knew they’d be caught if they stuck around, so they left to go elsewhere. 

Not so. Some of these people had families, families who could stand witness to how they had simply vanished. Went to work and didn’t come home. Left the house, didn’t take the car, and didn’t return. Went out for a beer. Took a drive with his friends. The story was the same. Half a dozen criminals, half a dozen people, poof gone. And Harry seemed to be the only person who noticed. The only one who saw these people gone and cared enough to raise an eyebrow. 

The first person he talked to was his son. 

They were out hunting, shooting for deer, one of the things Dexter had to do to keep sane, and Harry asked him. “Do you know who Unglaus Petriffe is?” Dexter had turned to him, cold eyes as large as a deer knowing it was watched. He shook his head, eyes honest. “-He was a killer. I told you about him.” Dexter seemed uncertain, uncomfortable. “Told you what a plight he was. Did… did you do something to him?”

“What?” Dexter had asked. “Do what?” 

Harry should have dropped it right there. “How about Seth Lopting? That name ring any bells?” 

“Dad, I have no idea who they are. Why are you asking me this?” 

Why was he asking him that? Maybe it was because he didn’t have anyone else to suspect, nobody else who would care enough about him to murder for him. 

-Did he?

Another name popped up in his head. Another Dexter. Another person, another psychopath. Another person who seemed to care about him a little more than he’d like. “-Sorry, son. I was… It was work-related. Don’t worry about it.” Dexter seemed rattled. “Look, I-, I’ll tell you how it goes, alright? Until then, let’s get back to hunting.” Dexter lit up at the mention. He always did, and Harry wondered briefly if the other Dexter might like hunting as well. 

Only one way to find out.

He found the adult Dexter sitting hunched over a blood-sample in his lab, where he could usually be found. For some reason, when Harry knocked on the door and entered, Dexter seemed almost flushed, embarrassed. As if doing his job was bad. Maybe there was something wrong with the blood-slide? Harry filed it away in his head as yet another curiosity about the enigma that was Dexter. “Harry, what a surprise. You startled me,” Dexter said, and Harry could tell it was true. 

During these months, Harry had come to know Dexter well enough to be able to tell these sorts of things. The man, formally so withdrawn and silent, was now almost an open book. Almost. “Say, Dexter, how would you like to go hunting?”

Dexter lit up at the mention. And then proceeded to deflate. In his head, Harry could almost hear Dexter grumble to himself. “-No, sorry, I don’t hunt. It’s so needlessly cruel.”

Dexter’s eyes were clouded with untruth. He was lying. Harry hadn’t seen that before. “You don’t have to shoot anything yourself,” Harry offered diplomatically. “You can just watch.”

“No, I’d rather-,”

“I urge you to reconsider.” That made him stop in his tracks. His eyes widened by the smallest increment. Blinked. Glanced off. Glanced down. Until, finally…

“I-, uh. Sure. Okay. When, where?” 

Harry smiled, knowing it had worked. All he had to do now was put his plan into work. 

Three days later, at the appointed time and the appointed place, they met. Harry was dressed in his usual hunting gear, and Dexter was dressed in a cheaper cloth, something Harry didn’t put against him. As decided, Harry brought the guns, and Dexter brought lunch. “-I thought you’d bring Dexter?”

Harry scoffed. “Oh, no, he couldn’t make it,” he lied. Dexter had wanted to come along, as he always did when hunting or murder was a part of the equation, but Harry wouldn’t let him. -On the other hand, he couldn’t recall telling Dexter he’d bring his son. An odd assumption to make, considering that Dexter was only 15, turning 16 in a few months. Not an age you’d take him hunting. “-Shall we get going?” 

Dexter nodded, and got going they did. As always, hunting was more about the hunt than the kill. 

For first-timer hunters and newbies, this part might be the most tedious. Boring. Noticing movements, getting all tense only to realize it was nothing but a falling leaf. Harry was a seasoned hunter, he didn’t mind the stalking. Dexter, on the other hand?

He revelled in it. By the looks of it, he found the hunt to be just as enjoyable as anything else. More enjoyable than whatever he did at work. No, that wasn’t quite true. There was one moment where Dexter seemed truly alive, the one time where he appeared to care about what happened around him. And that was at the crime scene. His eyes lit up, and for once, he seemed to enjoy himself. Simply taking in the body of work laid out before him. Right now, he was much the same. Eyes focused, body tense and coiled like an iron spring. The way he acted… he seemed like he’d gotten into hunting at an early age and had never truly stopped. 

And when they found a deer… His entire being changed. For a moment, a mere moment that Harry let him have, Dexter wasn’t just Dexter anymore. He was more, and he was less. More of that other, less human. Eyes filled with something that wasn’t there before, he killed it. The utter glee he took in its death… It was all too similar to his own son. The teenager was much less experienced, often stumbling behind Harry, but Dexter… Dexter was ahead of him. All too willing to slice the neck off the poor thing. Watching as the blood drained out of the animal and into the ground. 

“Have you heard of Thomas Nick?” Harry asked. 

Dexter turned his head, and in a mere moment, that dark thing in his eye scurried away, replaced by Dexter. “-Who?” 

Harry pulled his lips tight. He’d gotten the attention he wanted. If he had to choose, he hoped that this wouldn’t work. It’d be better that way. “Thomas Nick. Factory worker. The main suspect in a case I’m working.”

“Oh,” Dexter said, looking back at the doe he’d killed. 

“He’ll probably walk.” Dexter froze. “It makes me mad, too. It’s clear he did it, no doubts about that, and still… No proof. We can’t get a warrant for his house. All we need to find is a cane. That’s all. If we had that…” he looked off into the woods, “we’d have him down in the station in a jiffy.”

Dexter stood up. “-That so?” Harry nodded, hoping to God that what he feared wouldn’t happen. “I see. That’s a real shame. I’m sorry.”

Five days later and Harry’s fears were confirmed.


	4. Unravelling Red Yarn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand that's the end of it. I just wanted this out of my system. I could probably have made it longer, but I've got other stuff to write. Watch out for that!

He’d gotten permission for it from up high. Some might have considered it a loss of a valued officer, but since he’d be back in a week at most, it was accepted, albeit with some criticism. 

He’d spend his days and night following Thomas Nick. Watching him go to work during the days, watching him go to sleep at night. He watched and guarded him like an unwilling guardian angel. Hoping to the Lord above that he wasn’t wasting company time to stake out someone who didn’t deserve it in the least. In any other situation, Harry would have been happy to see Thomas get his comeuppance somehow. In any way. Hell, he was raising his son to do just that! Maybe it was hypocritical of him to do something like this, but who was going to stop him? Nobody, that’s who.

Whoever was doing this, if they were doing this, couldn’t possibly be sure about this. They wouldn’t know how to make sure someone deserved what they got, wouldn’t know what signs to look for… A gun is still dangerous, even if it’s pointed at someone who deserves a bullet. Especially if the wielder doesn’t know how to handle it. 

Four days after Harry started his stakeout, five days after he told his one and only suspect about Thomas Nick’s existence, he got confirmation. 

By this point, Harry knew Thomas’ habits as well as anybody. He got up at 5, on the crack of dawn, and went to sleep at 10, right as the sun set. He did this on workdays and weekends alike. At 23, they struck. Looked left, looked right, scaled the fence, and before Harry could even process what had happened, they were inside the home. An expert lock-picker. Harry didn’t follow them inside. He had to know, he had to be sure that this was it. And it was. 

At 00:00, he could wait no longer. If they were doing it, they must have been doing it inside the house. Bold as brass. 

Harry stepped out of the car, grabbed his gun to hold close, and approached the house. It was dark. Much like all the other houses. Dark and isolated and empty. Thomas Nick lived alone. He had no regular acquaintances, no one who would visit him at night or miss him in the mornings. If he wasn’t under police investigation, nobody would care for his appearance or disappearance in the least. His yard was a mess. The lawn was barren in some spots, sporting bald-spots to rival any high-testosterone man in his forties, yet in others, grass and weeds grew long and tall, giving off the impression that he had no care for such things as a lawn.

Luckily, the intruder had forgotten to lock the door after him. They weren't expecting anyone else to enter, and Harry thanked this thoughtlessness. The door creaked open, but Harry had no fears that he might be heard. 

Inside the house, he heard voices. Not hushed, not loud. Conversational, yet… distinct. It seemed like an entirely one-sided conversation, one side filled with arguments and proof, the other fruitlessly defending themselves against what was the truth and nothing but the truth. Harry stepped through the hall, avoiding a pair of discarded, torn shoes that had to have been Thomas’. A long, colourful carpet was laid out along the hallway, but Harry couldn’t tell what colour it was in the darkness. All the colours blended into one general shade of dark blue. 

His hands trembled. He should have called for backup, but he didn’t. He might yet be wrong. Maybe Thomas had a friend who liked playing pranks on him? Unlikely, but possible. 

He’d prefer that to what he knew was true.

After all, he recognized one of the voices. That voice that resounded with such stunning clarity, the voice that seemed so similar yet so different. The voice that confirmed all of his suspicions. 

In the whole of the house, only one light was on. And it came from the kitchen. It was a harsh, artificial light, the kind that felt more bluish than yellow. Even so, it seemed muted, somehow. The light that shone into the hallway was dim, shaded by something Harry couldn’t see. When he got closer, he saw the reason for this. It was a plastic sheath. Draped over the doorway, blocking light from exiting. Why would this be here? What possible use could-,

And then, something splattered on it. Something red splashed across the plastic cover, and Harry realized all too late that he hadn’t heard any voices in a good while. The sheet was to catch blood. Blood from a certain Thomas Nick.

A lightning-bolt of panic struck Harry’s heart and he threw up his gun-wielding hand, pointing the nuzzle into the plastic-covered inside of the kitchen. He took a deep breath. Whatever he saw in there, he had to keep calm, he absolutely had to. Otherwise it might be the last thing he did. 

When the humming started, Harry threw the plastic cover to the side, and emerged into the kitchen, gun raised, eyes hard and heart steeled. 

His eyes could not remain on the scene itself. The second he entered the room, the killing room, his eyes flitted about it, taking in the scene. The entire room was covered head-to-toe in plastic sheaths, the only other features being four pictures of a few people Harry recognized too well. Thomas Nick’s alleged victims. Thomas Nick himself was in the middle of the room, strapped to a table by what seemed to be plastic foil. He was naked, but that wasn’t what caught Harry’s attention. Saying he was being tortured might suggest that he would survive the turmoil put upon him. 

Lacking two hands and one foot, half of his face sliced clean off, it was a wonder he hadn’t died yet.

And at his side, standing as awkward as a school-boy asking a girl to prom, was none other than Dexter. Clutching a bloody butcher’s knife. Eyes wide and shaking, the dark creature housed within them trembling like an aspen leaf. Thomas took his last breath. Dexter took a breath too, but he used it to speak.

“D-, dad,” he said in a breathy whisper. He lost his grip on the knife and it clattered to the floor, hot red crimson blood scattering like flies across the plastic-covered floor. 

Harry’s gaze almost faltered. His hands trembled, but the aim remained true. He had his gun pointed straight at Dexter. Chest rising and falling, he looked at him. Looked at someone he considered his friend. Someone he picked off of the streets and made into something. Standing there, with plastic gloves and leather boots and a latex apron. “What the Hell is wrong with you?”

Dexter swallowed deeply. “It-, wait, Harry, listen to me-,”

“No, you listen to me! You raise your hands right this second or I shoot!” Harry shouted, and Dexter could only comply.

\--------

Shit shit shit shit. He’d been sloppy. Sloppy and messy and here he was. Being stared down by his father, looking at him like he was some damn escaped lion. A tiger out of his cage, sitting hunched over a human corpse. Maybe not the best simile for the situation, but Dexter sure felt like that was the case. 

“Harry-,”

“Now, Dexter!”

Dexter raised both his hands. They shook slightly, but not out of fear. At least, not fear for himself. This was about Harry, not him. Dexter couldn’t care less about himself. No, he cared about his father. Standing there, gun raised, face hard and soft and regretful and hesitant. So unlike the Harry Dexter knew. At least he hadn’t puked. Yet. God, the memories of the first time Harry walked in on him. First and last. Dexter had been so happy back then, proud and big and everything he’d ever wanted to be. 

“-Harry. Listen.” Harry didn’t object. He was giving him a chance. A chance to explain himself. “I did my research. I made sure before I killed them, Harry. Every time, they deserved it, I swear.”

“...Why the hell do you think that would convince me?” 

-Shit. All things considered, Dexter wasn’t supposed to know about that. “-You keep talking about people who slip through the cracks, and-,”

“Cut the bullshit. I know there’s more than that, so tell me!” Harry demanded, his eyes flitting between Dexter and his victim.

Dexter looked at the gun. “I… I’ll tell you. If you put down the gun.” Harry seemed extremely hesitant, frown deepening. Maybe Thomas was making him uncomfortable? He was still bleeding out all his pints of blood, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon. “I won’t try to run. If I know anything, it’s that I can’t run from you. See, I’ll even go sit over here. Far from all my tools.” Saying so, Dexter slowly made his way around his workbench, Harry’s gun trailing him the entire time. “See? I’m no harm.”

And… that seemed to convince him. Somewhat. He let his hands fall to his side, but he didn’t release his grip on his gun. That was alright. Dexter just didn’t like having it in his face. “Tell me,” Harry said. “Tell me why, and how, and who you really are.”

Guess this was how Dexter’s idyllic life ended. “-My name is Dexter.” He continued before Harry could object. “Dexter Morgan. Formerly known as Dexter Moser.”

“You… aren’t supposed to know that.”

“I know. You made sure of it, before you passed away. I wasn’t meant to uncover it, and I did, and here I am. Harry-, no. No, I’ll stop that now. Dad.” Harry flinched harshly. “Yeah. I won’t pretend that isn’t who I am, because it wouldn't be true.”

“What… what the fuck are you saying?”

“You didn’t think it was strange? Dexter - my young self - must have told you, no? We can tell by each other’s eyes. As he could tell from my eyes, I could tell from his. Maybe he told you to be careful with me, maybe he told you I was like him… I don’t know.” Dexter gestured towards the corpse beside him with a tired wave. “-As you can see, he was right to warn you.”

“You-, you’re,” Harry stammered, stuck between disbelief and denial. 

“Yeah. I don’t know how it happened either, I just… One moment I was out on the seas, and the next, here I was. What do you want me to say? That I know how you’re raising your son to become a killer of killers? Hey, first rule of the code of Harry: don’t get caught.” Dexter’s eyes grazed over Harry for a moment, watching as realization dawned on him, along with a sense of waking dread. His grip on the pistol grew tighter. “Hey, don’t worry! None of those rules apply to you! Though, it’s nice to know that you know the code well enough to know why ‘don’t get caught’ sits above ‘don’t hurt an innocent’.”

“...Is that really you, Dexter?...” 

Dexter laughed. A short, coarse laugh. “Yeah. It’s me, dad.”

Harry clearly didn’t know how to take this. “I-… why didn’t you tell me?”

Why didn’t he tell him? Wrong question. Rather, why would he tell him at all? Dexter averted his gaze. “I… had my reasons.”

Harry raised his gun. “Either you tell me, or I treat you like any other criminal.”

Fine. “Sure. Just-, put that back down, won’t you? I’ve got my reasons.” Dexter evaluated Harry. He was younger than Dexter remembered. Maybe he could take it better this time? “-They call me the Bay Harbour Butcher.” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Ah, don’t worry, they haven’t caught me.” He grinned. “Yet. Well, they think they’ve caught me. First rule. I was able to put their attention on… someone else. Since then, I’ve been able to work almost completely unhindered.” Harry didn’t seem convinced. “-When you raised me, taught me all the rules, how did you think I’d function as an adult?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Heh, long story short, I… I’ve had an eventful couple of years. Many long years of questioning myself. It was strange, without you.”

“How… how did I die?”

Dexter looked him up and down, considering his words carefully. “You died in ‘96, after some medical complications.” Going by his facial expression, Harry obviously didn’t know how to take it. “That wasn’t how you died though. No, that came later. You… did yourself in.” No response. “After seeing what I became.” Dexter’s eyes and thoughts were far-off, sombre and gone. “You won’t do that again, will you?”

There was a little threat in his words. Just a small, little one. “N-, no, I… Why would I-,”

“Dad, do you know how many people I’ve killed?” 

Harry stared at him, eyes wide, jaw and fists clenched.

“A hundred and fifty. More people than we’ve got in the homicide department. And I’m not counting a lot of people. A lot of humans whose lives have been lost because you taught me how to act, how to remain unseen. I don’t regret their deaths. I have no such capacity for emotion.” Harry quivered. “But you… You do. You did. All those years back, you knew what I’d become, and you… simply couldn’t handle it.”

“And… and what if I can’t handle it now?”

Dexter bored his eyes into Harry. “You have to. You don’t have a choice. I won’t let you die, not again. Neither will I let my young counterpart become like me. I’ll make sure he grows up without so much as knowing this is an option. And you’ll help me.” It wasn’t a question. 

“-I can’t. Dexter-, you… This is insane. What you’re trying to tell me… 150 murders… That would make you one of the most notorious serial killers in all of America, no, all of the world! I couldn’t-, how could I possibly live with that? I’m a cop, for God’s sake, I can’t just-! I can’t just take such a number lying down!”

Dexter shrugged. “What can I tell you? All these years… Ever since you were gone, I’ve idolized you. You’ve been the God of my private religion. Untouchable. The one moral perfect. Or, well, you were, until I started learning one or two things about myself. But that isn’t important. What’s important is that we change it. We have to. I don’t care if you blame yourself for my sins, what I care about is making sure that nothing I did remains carved on the walls of history.”

Harry turned to the body. “What will you do with him?”

Dexter barely spared the man a glance. “I’ll dispose of him in the Gulf stream. Nobody will find him.”

Harry looked away. “...I didn’t see anything.”

Dexter watched him leave. It wasn’t a no, but it wasn’t a yes either. It could mean anything. 

Right now, Dexter needed that uncertainty.


End file.
